


Let the Ashes Fall

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, firestarter sam, pyrokinesis, supernatural season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Season 1. There'd always been something wrong with Sam. Dad knew it, Dean knew it, even Sam knew it. Yet no one talked about it until Dad finally told Dean and ran off into the night to leave him with the mess. But Dean will never leave Sam alone, not even when they come to admit how all these fires keep starting, and definitely not when they finally relinquish all control and let go. Title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsPq9mzFNGY">James Bay's "Let It Go"</a>.<br/><b>Art Link:</b> Coming soon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Ashes Fall

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Written for [spn_reversebang](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com) for [expectative's](http://expectative.livejournal.com/) prompt seen above. The framing and colors really struck me and I knew that expectative would be easy to work with! Thank you for letting me take this where it dragged me this week! <3333

  


**So come on, let it go  
** Just let it be  
Why don't you be you  
And I'll be me?  
Everything that's broke  
Leave it to the breeze  
Let the ashes fall 

 

Sam always ran hot. All that thin skin unreasonably warm and sweaty, hair damp and stringy, and Dean hated touching him. When they were young, he’d poked and laughed about his kid brother having some sort of perspiration problem and Sam would sulk, his eyes turned away. 

On a few rare occasions, when Sam would boil to high temps and his skin would shine like diamonds, Dean would really consider the possibility and watch Sam for longer than was necessary. 

“What if he’s really sick?” Dean had asked more than once. “I mean, what if something’s really wrong with him?”

Dad used to say it was from the fire, the one that had lit up their childhood home. He’d say it with twisted lips and a listless shrug, but Dean never really understood.

“No, but really,” Dean would nag, because in his late teens, he’d finally graduated from _watch after your brother_ to _protect Sammy_. 

“Something is wrong with him,” Dad had finally answered. Dean stared at him, stomach twisting as his Dad sadly shook his head. “Something is wrong with all of us.”

Dean’s anger flared and he gritted his teeth. “Don’t say that.”

“When you’re old enough …”

“What?” He scoffed and glared at Dad. “I’ll understand?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll see it. You’ll see Sam.”

It took another few years, but Dean finally saw it all. Their past, along with their future, until Dean couldn’t let his brother stay at Stanford anymore.

 

*

 

Over time, Dean has learned to lie real well. To women in bars with pretty smiles, to victims who have info he needs, and most importantly to himself.

It isn’t just about finding Dad. It’s about finding Sam … the real Sam buried beneath that layer of pink skin and shaggy bangs. 

When Dean sees Jess, his first instinct is to run. Sam looks happy with Jess, and Dean doesn’t need to show up and break up the first good thing Sam has going for him. 

But then he sees a flash in Sam’s eyes, one he never remembered from before. Maybe he’d blocked it all out. He hadn’t even been five yet; he didn’t know what it meant when the nursery burned up with Mom inside.

That quick spark flares up, maybe it’s anger, resentment, or even the need to protect them all, and Dean slips into his old skin. Lies to his baby brother’s face. 

_Dad’s on a hunting trip …_

And Sam listens. Through the barking and nagging that’s wormed its way back into their world, Sam hears Dean talk about family and resurrecting old demons that need to be slayed, all in the name of Mom.

And Dean continues to lie, as if it isn’t just a ruse to check in on Sam and make sure any premonitions that Dad had heard weren’t true. 

Until Sam’s apartment lights up with his girlfriend on the ceiling, a sad reminder of their home. Their mother. 

Dean had been waiting outside, waiting for it, but can’t move fast enough to stop the fire. Not even when he knows the root cause. He at least snatches Sam from beneath flames and hauls his ass outside. 

“What the hell happened?” Sam asks, quiet. Broken. 

Dean licks his lips, holds his breath, and drags the silence out as long as he can while working on an answer. It never comes. 

Sam glances over and Dean instantly tumbles to the hundred other times his brother had looked at him like the world was slowly shattering around them. “Is this what you meant?”

He can’t bear to watch his brother fall apart, so he looks at back at the building with flames eating it from the inside out. “Meant about what?”

“About having to face who I am?”

That makes Dean turn back to the conversation, eyes wide with held-breath. 

“When you said I have to face that I’m just like you. _One of us_. That’s why I couldn’t live a simple life, huh?”

He wants to reach out for his little brother, tug him close and shield him from the fire tearing down his world. But then he thinks about how it had always hurt to touch Sammy for too long. Dean doesn’t want to get burned or flinch away from his brother like Sam is some monster. Especially not now. In their world, there are far worse evils than this, but still … 

Dean continues to lie to Sam. And himself. 

“It’s gonna be fine, Sam.”

Sam glances back at the mess of fire crews still fighting a losing battle. “That was my whole future. Law School. Jess. ”

“You can still do school …” Another lie.

They remain quiet until they get to the car. Sam drops the customary _we’ve got work to do_ and Dean is happy to let that be the last words between them for the night. 

Only, he can’t stand the silence and about an hour down a lonely road, he finally speaks up. “I’ll be here for the next one.” Sam glances over then quickly looks away, and Dean clears his throat. “For the next future. I’m here no matter what.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course.” This time Dean’s words are full on truth. “I’m your big brother, aren’t I?”

Sam laughs uncomfortably, but there’s a tiny smile there so Dean is happy to turn up AC/DC and gun the engine. 

 

*

 

Dean keeps an eye on Sam over the next few months. On the surface, his brother seems dedicated to the cause and focused on taking down the bad things in the dark. But Dean sees right through him. 

Maybe it’s because he knows Sam better than anyone, or because he’s always watching out for him. Or even just because he _knows_.

One day, Sam is distracted while researching at a cheap bar and grill in some podunk town where they’re hunting an evil spirit that’s taken to haunting guests at a local motel. Suddenly, Sam drops his head and rubs his temple. His eyes clench shut, and he mutters to himself. Dean spots it all as he returns to the table, dropping a beer at Sam’s elbow and tapping his shoulder. 

It’s red-hot, even through his t-shirt and hoodie. 

“You okay?” There’s no answer and Dean fights against the heat to nudge him harder. “Sammy?”

Once he’s shaken from his thoughts, Sam nods and shifts in his chair. 

“Sam.”

“I’m fine.”

Dean sinks into the chair across the table and wants to believe him. He can’t. 

“I said I’m fine,” Sam repeats through tight lips. He doesn’t bother looking up, yet Dean can still tell that Sam’s going cross-eyed at the screen. “I’m fine.”

Dean attempts to joke, but it fails to make either of them comfortable. “What’s going on in that tiny brain of yours?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Okay, weirdo.”

Sam huffs and rattles his fingers on his laptop keyboard. That’s when Dean can see the rash over Sam’s knuckles. The longer Dean stares, the more it grows, slinking over Sam’s wrists and beneath the sleeves of his sweatshirt. 

Dean goes tense and sits up straight. “Sam.” From the corner of his eye, he sees flames grow on the grill to the left of the tiny wooden bar. “Sammy,” he says louder while watching the fire flicker a foot above the grill and stay there for a few long moments. 

“No, no, no, no,” Sam mumbles. 

“ _Sam_ ,” he says firmly. He reaches across the table to grab Sam’s wrist, which burns hot like the grill. 

It’s a quiet whisper, one syllable. Just Dean’s name, and they’re both up in a hurry with Dean dragging all their shit with one arm and the other hauling Sam out of the bar. 

“We didn’t even pay,” Sam mumbles, but they’re both distracted beyond the fact they’ve just dined and dashed. 

At the car, Dean drops everything into the back seat then grabs hold of Sam’s neck to inspect him. He tilts Sam’s head all around, struggles to see much in the night, but he can feel it. A hundred and some degrees of heat surging from Sam’s skin, and Dean is once again thrown a dozen years into the past. 

“Dammit, Sam. Look at me.”

Sam grunts with pain and leans heavy against the Impala while Dean tries to keep him upright. 

“Dude, come on. Look at me.” 

“Dean, I don’t feel good,” Sam says just before falling against Dean and losing consciousness. 

As Dean keeps him mostly upright, he looks over his shoulder to the bar, through the front windows. He can see that the staff are putting out the fire before it can damage much. Smoke billows up to the ceiling and patrons are shouting and hurrying out the front door. 

At least they’re safe. They’re alive. They’ll be okay. Even if Sam isn’t.

 

*

 

Weeks pass with more headaches and more warnings of them running into trouble. It comes looking for them in the middle of an ordinary job with what seems like a pretty mediocre ghost. They roam a vintage apartment building on the outskirts of Chicago where tiny rooms are stacked upon one another. The thin hallways make Sam and Dean crowd together as Dean uses his home-made EMF reader and Sam watches the red lights dance back and forth. 

In the back corner of the third floor, they find the culprit in the form of the old landlord. The husky, middle-aged balding man had fallen off a chair while changing a light bulb. Ordinary stuff, really, but dangerous when he cracked his head on a side table and bled out on the floor alone. 

Talking with the property manager while suited up in what could be his Sunday best, Sam had learned that the death happened a few decades ago while the story has lived on and the man’s old apartment has failed to keep tenants for long. Just hours later, Dean had posed as a prospective resident and found the slit in the bathroom wall behind the medicine cabinet that posed a solution.

“Oh, you know, back in the olden days,” the new landlord says with a roll of his eyes, “back when you had the straight razors.”

Dean had shrugged without a response to that.

“They’d empty them out into the walls. Probably dozens of those dumb things back there.”

It all clicked and Dean dragged Sam back there after dark to sneak inside and check behind the plaster. 

Now, Dean tugs the medicine cabinet off the wall, breaking plaster and chipping paint, then hands it over to Sam. 

He is entirely nonplussed with the wreckage. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean huffs. “You want me to kick the wall in?”

“It’d probably be just as messy.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“Just saying.”

“No, shut up and look.” He tugs Sam closer so they can both peek through the worn out hole and spot the rusty straight-edge blades stacked between wood and insulation. 

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, you were actually right.”

Dean glares at Sam, who now smirks with the joke. The room is light and easy as they attempt to recover all the blades with gloved hands so they can salt and burn them and remove all traces of that old landlord.

Only, the spirit shows up before they can finish him, knocking Sam into the small claw-footed tub and Dean back into the hallway. The ghost runs at Dean and pummels him, splitting Dean’s lip and drawing blood that streaks across his chin with every new hit. 

“Dean!” Sam shouts just before shooting salt and blasting the ghost into a cloud of dust. He runs to Dean and helps him to his feet, only for the landlord to reappear and knock them both over. 

“Sam!” he tries to shout, but now the ghost has him strung up against the wall, hands gripped tight around Dean’s neck. “Get the razors.”

He hurries, Dean can see it, but it’s not fast enough. Dean’s vision goes blurry and his legs lose feeling as the ghost strangles him to near death. Just beyond the faded vision of the room, there are flashes of orange. Dean blinks against the brightness, feels heat fill the room, but the ghost goes nowhere. 

“Dean!” Sam calls out even when it’s useless because Dean can’t answer him with his throat crushed under a ghost that’s more menacing than they’d anticipated. 

The bright colors grow higher and higher until Dean can only barely make out the misty visage against an auburn wall. As Dean’s vision narrows and he fights his last few breaths, the ghost finally dissipates and breaks into a million tiny particles that fade away. Sam grabs him as he falls then pulls him out of the room, which Dean can now see is fully engulfed in flames. 

Dean tries to piece it all together, praying with every cell in his body that it isn’t what he thinks it is. 

The world is a blur as Sam gets them outside to clean air. Everywhere Sam touches, Dean can feel the fire on his own skin. Dad’s voice is ringing in his ears, and he hears those terrible words all over again, telling him what was wrong with Sam for all these years. 

“Sam, what happened?” he struggles to ask through a rough throat.

“I lit the razors.”

The fire bursts through that apartment and quickly spreads in all directions, forcing Sam and Dean to stumble away from the explosion and growing flames. Dean knows they should get out of here before police and fire trucks and ambulances appear. Everyone will have questions they can’t answer. 

With Sam’s help, they hurry to the Impala so they’re far enough away to be innocent bystanders rather than the culprits of a dozen homes burning in minutes. 

“What the hell happened?” Dean asks.

“I had to light the razors,” Sam repeats with little emotion.

Dean wants to accept the simple answer, but he knows there’s more. And he’s weak enough in this moment to say it aloud. “You did it.”

“I had to save you.”

“No, Sam.” He fights to stand up and put space between them to look his brother in the eye. It’s even worse now to see Sam’s broken look and wet eyes. “Sam, you …”

“I had to _save you_. That spirit was going to kill you.”

“You lit that whole damn fire yourself, didn’t you?” Anger builds within, yet Dean pushes it down because he can’t bear to hurt Sam any more than he already is. Maybe he’s just pissed at himself for putting them in a situation like this, to get himself in harm’s way with that ghost and make Sam do this. Maybe he can convince himself that he’s not frightened of his own brother.

Quietly, wide-eyed and sad, Sam insists, “I had to.”

 

*

 

Dean remembers a Fourth of July when Sam only came up to his shoulders. They had a box full of roman candles he snatched from a warehouse they’d hunted just days earlier, and a memory seared into the deepest curves of his brain. 

The first few fireworks were set by his zippo, but the rest were Sam. All Sam and his fingers lighting with a quick snap. 

In Dean’s denial, his fractured memory, Sam had a lighter of his own, even though he knows Sam had asked to borrow Dean’s lighter. The one that stayed in Dean’s pocket the entire night. Years later, in vivid dreams with a rainbow of light spreading over the night sky, Dean knows his brother did it all on his own. 

And finally, Sam knows it, too. 

“I didn’t really know what it was. Or how it happened. But it did.”

The hotel room is as dark as that long-ago night and Dean blinks fully awake as Sam fills the space with his quiet words. 

“I did it,” he says like he’s asking himself and answering all at the same time. “It was me, huh? I lit those fireworks without a lighter. Just … I remember it was so hot that night.”

“You were sweating like a hog,” Dean says with a tiny smile. “Always were.”

“I see it all the time,” Sam admits. “All those fireworks going off. And it was just us out there alone. Dad would’ve killed us if he knew. It felt like we were in another world.”

_We’re always in another world_ , he thinks. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Dean answers on instinct. Out of habit and the need to hide Sam away from all the bad in this world. Even if Sam is bad, too. 

Sam shuffles around in bed and then sits up against the wobbly headboard. It makes as much noise as Sam’s heavy breathing. “You know there is.”

Dean shuts his eyes against the reality. He wants to escape from the fact that there is something wrong with his brother, and he has no idea why or how to fix it. 

“There’s always a fire somewhere. I can feel it, like it’s inside of me and wants to get out.” Sam sighs and knocks his head back against the wall, body too big for the bed. Kind of like how Sam’s spirit has grown too big for his skin. “It always wants to get out and I can’t stop it sometimes.”

Slowly, Dean moves to sit at the edge of the bed and watch his brother in what little light slivers through the cheap drapes hanging at the picture window. “But you can stop it?”

“Most times, yeah,” he concedes. “But then the headaches … ”

“We’ll figure it out, Sam.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, of course.” His voice cracks just like his confidence. “We’ll hit the library and we’ll read every book ‘til our eyes bleed. We’ll figure it out.”

Sam stares at him and Dean meets his eyes. It should be uncomfortable how long they look at each other. Dean thinks about turning away and ignoring how badly his fingers itch to touch Sam, just for a small bit of reassurance that he’s not alone in this. They have each other and Dean won’t let Sam out of his sight. Not now that he finally has Sam within reach. 

Dean’s palms sweat as if he’s taking on all of Sam’s heated worry. Like all the recent times he’s yanked Sam away from sparks ready to fly. Still, his skin tingles with the chilled air sputtering from the cheap AC unit in the corner. Or maybe it’s from the nagging feeling that this is only the beginning. 

They’re still staring at one another when Sam tilts his head in thought as if he’s seeing behind Dean’s cool façade.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam finally says before burrowing back beneath the covers. 

Dean doesn’t move until he can hear the soft snores from Sam’s side of the room. When he does move, it’s to check on his brother, gently running his fingers over Sam’s forehead. Sam’s skin is clammy and warm, making Dean’s own damp hands even sweatier, but it’s another hour before he finally hits the sack to grab a few hours of sleep.

 

*

 

The corners of Dad’s journal wear out and Dean loses count of libraries after twenty. There is not enough in the lore or history, and Sam just runs into hundreds of fan pages in any number of genres where super heroes master fire. 

Which gives Dean an idea. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Sam says as they stand in front of an abandoned landfill sometime after two in the morning.

“This is smart, Sam.”

“And it smells.”

“That’s your B.O.” Dean tries to smirk, but it feels off; this whole moment is off, really. As a hunter, this is so far off base, yet as a brother, it feels like the best option. “Look, we can’t find anything on what makes you … you. So why not just embrace it? Learn to control it so at least you’re not a threat.”

Sam immediately faces Dean with a tense look. “So you think I’m a threat?”

“No, I mean … okay, bad choice of words.” He sighs and puts his hands up to Sam’s chest, feels warmth seeping into his fingertips in an instant. Fighting the burn, his fingers curl into Sam’s jacket and hold him in place, both of them, really, so Dean doesn’t run away from his brother. “But if we can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right? At least we have a new weapon against all those bastards we’re running down every night.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam shifts away and puts on his classic bitch face. “But why here?”

“No one else would hang around a garbage pit.”

“So why are we?”

“Because you can burn up all the crap you want without anyone noticing.” Dean also considers the fact that no one else will get hurt, just the two of them maybe. He takes a step to the side and motions at the hill of rotting garbage. “So, do your thing.”

Sam stands in place and stares off into the distance. Dean’s not sure what he expected—maybe a wave of his hand, concentrated looks, or some random mutters to get it all going—but nothing happens.

Dean clears his throat and tries his best to not stare at his brother.

“It’s not that easy,” Sam complains. 

“Why not?”

He makes a face then drops his head to stare at his feet. “I don’t _want_ this. I didn’t ask for this.” He picks up his head to glare at the piles of dirt and trash ahead of them. “Why me?”

“I don’t know, Sam.”

“What did Dad say?”

“He didn’t know either.” Even if Dad had said how, Dean isn’t sure he’d have the nerve to believe it, or tell Sam. “He just said to watch out for you.”

“Figures.” Sam huffs and jams his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “He knows everything else in the world. Bossed us around our whole lives because he always knew better. But when it could help, he claims he has no idea.”

“Sam, if he knew, he’d have said something.”

“He knew about _me_!” Sam shouts. 

Dean takes a step back in surprise then moves back in to stay close to his brother. 

“He knew about _this_ and he didn’t do or say anything before. And what? He finally tells you once he’s gonna run off and ditch you? For what? You’d have something to keep you busy. I’m just another chore for you.”

Flames burst just feet away, making Dean flinch back, but Sam doesn’t move an inch. 

“Just another way for Dad to prove to me that I can’t take care of myself! That I always need one of you around.”

The fire climbs higher and Dean sees Sam’s hands clenched in fists and ire in Sam’s eyes. Now it makes sense, and Dean smiles at the realization. “So, you hulking out helps?”

“What?” Sam snaps and sparks shoot off from the fire to help it move further into the mess of waste. 

“It makes sense,” Dean nods. “When you’re mad and upset, right? That’s when it happens. When you’re fighting something.”

Sam watches Dean for long, quiet moments then waves his hand at the fire. It immediately falls to ash and dust. 

Dean smiles as Sam just stares at his hand. “So you can control it?”

Sam shrugs. “I just gave it a shot.”

“That’s good! Look at you!”

“I don’t want it to be good,” Sam insists angrily.

Dean immediately tempers down his excitement to avoid further irritating Sam. “Then what do you want?”

“I want it to be gone! I just want to be normal!”

Now Dean laughs, bitterly, but still. He’s partly amused by this whole mess. “Sam, we’ll never be normal! No matter what we do, we’re always going to be a couple of messed-up brothers in a messed-up world. I mean, look at how our story starts … ” He trails off when the memories return and he imagines a tiny baby Sam behind the whole thing.

“And I did it, didn’t I?”

“Sam,” Dean warns, “don’t go there.”

“It was all me, right?” Sam’s eyes fill with tears and he breathes heavily. Dean wants to wrap Sam up and hide them both away, while also wanting Sam to let it all out. Especially when a fire bursts to life again, flames roaring twice as high as before. “That’s all I am, anyway, right? Just all messed up with a thousand issues following me everywhere. I started us on this screwed-up path, and kept us on it. And I hurt everyone around us. Mom and Jess and who knows how many others?”

Dean steps closer then stops when bright orange flares in Sam’s eyes, mimicked in the flames speeding up the hill to light all the garbage. 

“I don’t want to control it.”

“Then what?” Dean asks, voice tight just like every muscle in his body keeping him in place. “Then what do you want?”

“I just want to let it all burn.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer to that, so he stays out at the landfill until Sam’s worn out and dried up from silent tears. The landfill is half the size it was when they first arrived, with garbage falling apart and dwindling down to piles of soot. 

Sam doesn’t seem any better and Dean certainly doesn’t feel it. Maybe they just need to let this day end here, so Dean reaches for Sam and ends up wrapping his hand around the blistering skin covering Sam’s wrist. There’s no real reaction so Dean slides his hand lower to avoid sensitive skin and holds Sam’s hand as they walk back to the car. 

Their fingers tangle while Dean’s hand burns with the excess heat, but he won’t let go.

 

*

 

A loud thud wakes Dean and he shoots up from the mattress. He doesn’t think beyond _Sam_ when he sees the other bed is empty with blankets flung about. The bedside lamp is on and he blinks against the sudden harsh light while trying to get his bearings.

The room’s empty so he jumps to his feet then stumbles over something … someone … 

“Sam!” he shouts as he whips back around and drops to the floor. Sam is huddled into a ball, tucked frighteningly tight for his size. His clothes are soaked and clinging to his frame, and Dean wipes sweat away from Sam’s forehead and brushes damp hair away as he ignores the sear of Sam’s skin. “Sam? Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“I can’t stop it, Dean.”

“Can’t stop what?”

“The fires,” he mumbles. 

“What about the fires?”

“They’re coming. All the time.”

Dean curses under his breath while hauling Sam up and dragging him like dead weight to the bathroom. He had always known it would become more trouble, that there’d be more to fight than Sam’s bitterness of the whole problem. That one day, there’d be real trouble.

He thinks over all the ways this will go as he gets the shower running ice cold. Considers running away and hiding in some lost town where no one will ever see them when Sam’s knees buckle. Dean helps him down into the tub before either of them get hurt, then turns on the faucet to fill up the bath. Ponders the possibility of squatting at one of those run-down motels they pass along 90 or 94 or 66 as he falls against the side of the tub with a harsh sigh. 

With the water off, there’s a quiet _drip-drop_ into the icy water, but little else going on in the room. Sam’s still as a statue with his knees rising from the water and his hands resting on top of them. He stares up at the highest row of peach-colored tile with beads of water, or sweat or both, rippling down his face. Dean pats Sam’s hand and squeezes.

“You alright now?”

Sam turns his hand over to clutch at Dean, tucking their palms together so tightly that Dean isn’t even sure which of them is burning the other. His skin singes against the heat, broken by flashes of ice when he dips his other hand into the water to balance it out. 

“I don’t want this,” Sam whispers. 

“I know.” Dean sighs and pulls their hands to the edge of the tub surround so he can sit more comfortably. Like that night at the landfill, he won’t let go, no matter how much pain scorches his arm. 

“I don’t want you taking care of me.”

“Well, too bad,” he challenges. “Because I’m all you’ve got.” 

Sam looks lost and young, like he’s barely of age to drive. 

“And you’re all I’ve got,” Dean insists, “So I’m not letting you out of my sight. We’re going get through this together. Just me and you, okay?”

With a sad smile, Sam admits, “I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

“So don’t.”

“But—”

“Do whatever the hell you want.” And Dean smiles because he truly believes it now. Their lives are fucked beyond repair and Sam being some kind of fire freak is just another log on their shitty pile of broken logs. “Fire or don’t fire? What the hell does it matter anymore? I don’t want to fight against this either, you know? I’m tired, and maybe we both just need a pass for once in this life.”

Sam’s sad smile turns pleased and creases dimples in his cheeks. Dean feels it warm him to the core, more so than Sam’s fiery skin ever has before. 

They don’t talk about it anymore that night. They don’t talk much at all beyond murmurs of their names because something else takes over as Dean helps Sam out of wet clothes that stick in all sorts of places. They’re far too close for two brothers, but Dean figures they never were just regular siblings. There was always something keeping them tethered together, that same itch that drove Dean to Stanford and keeps him standing beside Sam no matter what happens to either of them.

Even when Dean feels it deep in his bones, it’s Sam who moves first. Once his damp shirt is off and Dean’s dragged the soaked sweatpants down slim hips, Sam leans in to plant a kiss at the corner of Dean’s mouth. It’s all crooked and off, but it stops Dean all the same. In that brief pause, Sam grabs at Dean’s face with his warmth flaring over Dean’s cheeks and jaw. 

His stomach burns when he feels Sam’s lips press tightly against his, when Sam’s tongue slides inside and drag against his own. He pulls away from the fire of his brother’s kiss to hold them a few inches apart, but frost covers him from head to toe with the space and he knows he needs Sam’s searing touch back. 

They fight into a new kiss until Sam strong arms them onto Dean’s bed, covering Dean with the growing heat of his long body. Everything fits from there with Sam’s hips slotting against Dean’s, arms around waists and necks, and even Dean’s leg lifted over Sam’s thigh with Sam’s scorching-hot palm tugging them closer together. 

Sam gets rough and intense like he’s dying for the touch of Dean against him. Maybe he is, Dean wonders, as he recalls all those year of him and Dad avoiding the sting of any contact. So Dean gives in and makes up for all that lost time, tries to prove to Sam that there’s nothing wrong with him no matter how many fires he strikes in all sorts of places. Because he’s ignited something here between them that only makes the Winchesters all the more fucked up in this rotten world they’re stuck in. 

Rocking hard, Sam presses Dean into the mattress, rutting his hips down against him without mercy. Dean’s skin burns with every kiss and bite and scrape, and he gives back as good as he gets. They hiss and curse through every touch, breathe heavy into one another, as Dean tilts his hips up to rub off on his brother. He can count every long inch of Sam digging into his hip and it makes him move faster, grab harder, kiss filthier, all so he can dig his heels into something other than shame and fear. 

Sam circles his hips with a whine as Dean tugs at Sam’s ass to keep their groins tucked tight as they fuck against each other. Of course it’s different than anything Dean’s done with women; he thinks it might be better because he has no inhibitions here with Sam, and he lets out loud, shattered moans when he finally comes. Sam swallows up every noise with wet, deep kisses, and Dean lets him do whatever he needs to hit his orgasm, too.

With Sam’s heat draped over him, Dean doesn’t bother fighting sleep. Throughout the night, they shift and toss and turn, but never leave more than an inch between them. And in the morning, they don’t comment on what happened and what’s changed. A few looks are shared, though, and Dean knows there’s no going back, only forward.

 

*

 

It takes time, but eventually, Dean settles into the notion of everything _Sam_ tucked up tight against him in every way, every second of every hour. In the light of day, it’s just two brothers hunting, like when they first left Stanford, only with less animosity between them. Or for themselves, because while Sam never owns up to any of his smiles, he seems more snug in his skin. All those rough edges are smoothed out and Sam’s growing into himself.

Dean, for all that he’s worried over Sam since the kid was born, watches even closer. Now, it’s to know where Sam is at all times, not just to keep him from creating more havoc in their lives. 

It’s as normal as they can get, Dean figures. They’re always going to be twisted up in the world of monsters that rise from the dead. There will always be lore and myth following close behind. Hell, he’s got Sam the Firestarter sitting shotgun. 

Sam still runs hot. Skin burning with dark desire and his sweat smoky like sulfur after blowing out a match. 

Nowadays, Dean can’t stop touching him and burn along with him.


End file.
